Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1987. január-június (41. évfolyam, 1-25. szám)
1987-01-29 / 4. szám
Thursday, Jan. 29. 1987. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 13 John T. Gojack: ^ JOCSAK AND SON IX. We decided to head for the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Arriving a few days early, I got a job washing dishes in a greasy spoon restaurant. The pay was six dollars for a 7-day week, and I had to wash and dry all the dishes and cooking pans without help. Vic visited me once, claiming he couldn't find work, after looking for just one day. "How are you spending your time?" I asked. "Chasing tail!" he answered with his usual brevity. I was working too hard, long hours and once for twenty-four hours straight without sleep. Eating too much of the ptomaine parlor food made me squeamish. This misery was experienced without • once seeing a Mardi Gras parade or event. "Let's get out of here, Vic. I hear there are 10,000 hoboes in town so it would pay to leave early," I urged when he next visited my barell-gravy kitchen. "With the Mardi Gras on, the girls want money, so I'm with you. Let's go." Getting out of New Orleans was tough. The railroad detectives went to great lengths to keep hoboes off the trains. Tougher ones beat people off moving trains and turned over- to local police those caught in the railroad yards. It took us more than a day to catch a freight out. A few miles out of the switching yards, our train took a siding to allow a fast manifest to pass. Two dicks went up and down the train clearing everyone off with their police sticks. We walked back to a hobo jungle to check with bums who knew this area. "There's a line about ten nrfiles north where you'd have a better chance to hop a ride," one told us. "Watch for very long and slow cattle trains moving east, hauling animals out of the dust bowl to the Southeast for green grazing land," and old-timer advised. "Do those trains go to Florida?" I asked. "Sure," one hobo answered, "they'll all go to Florida or southern Georgia, but you'll be sitting on a lot of sidings. They have to yield the right of way to all others trains." We walked toward the line recommended by the jungle bums and slept another night on heavy grass in a ditch near the tracks. Up and walking at the crack of dawn, we talked of fooo and wondered if there would be a town where we were heading. When we reached the line with the slow cattle trains, we were two days with only a candy bar each for nourishment. Fortunately, water was available near the water tanks every time the train stopped for coal or water. With a sore foot from a nail in my shoe, I had to rest. "Wait here and I'll check out those buildings ahead. There should be a store there," Vic decided. He returned with an unhappy look. "What a miserable place! With all those buildings and people living across the road from them, the nearest grocery store is seven miles west," he announced angrily. "I sure as hell can't walk a fifteen-mile round trip for food, but I'll wait here for you if you're hungry enough to make that hike." My bad news was that it would take a shoe repairman to take out the nail hurting my foot. A freight train pulling in from the West made the decision for us. It was a long and slowly-crawling cattle train. We spotted an empty car and hopped on with ease. The train was going slow because it was rolling into a siding just ahead, in order to let a fast manifest go by on the main line. This was fortunate, as it gave us the chance to look for a really clean car. Our first choice looked all right as it approached, but, jumping on, we slipped into manure and, looking for a spot to sit down, our only choices were more manure. We stood! The train was pulling many empties so it was not long before we found a first- class car, this time a box car which would be much warmer at night. Later we complimented ourselves for moving back on the train, instead of forward, to find a better car. As the engine pulled out of the siding, picking up speed, we noticed people jumping off the train up front. "Those bastard railroad cops are beating people off with their clubs," I told Vic. "With the train speeding, it's going to be too dangerous to jump off," warned Vic. When hopping off a train, it's crucial to hit the ground running, or else you might spill and hurt yourself badly. The railroad dicks were now three cars in front of us, beating people off. There was a creek or bayou running parallel to the outer track, and it looked dangerous to jump off there. We kept one eye on the dicks working our way and the other looking for clear ground to leave the train. "The dicks are on the second car in front of us. Look ahead and you'll see the creek or bayou has veered off to the right," I pointed out. The ground was clear and we were sitting with our legs outside the car, ready to juinp and run. We saw the dicks push off a young man, who failed to land running. "That's the guy who jumped on in front of us." He was a tall, skinny kid, not much older than Vic, who made a bad guess. He should have hung on in spite of the railroad cops or jumped into a roll. Trying to land on his feet, off a train going too fast, had to be trouble. He tumbled hard, smacking into a metal rail switch light, and was not moving when our car passed him. We both felt sick. "The poor bastard," I said with pity. "Yeah, what rotten fucking luck," echoed Vic. With cattle in the car ahead of us, we were next on the railroad dicks' schedule. Making sure the path was clear, we jumped off running and waved goodbye to the dicks as they neared our car. Train-hopping was often risky, and never romantic. We hiked back to the crossing, and at the hobo jungle we learned there would be freights pulling in for water or coal all night long. Those "Knights of the Road" had accurate information and in less than an hour we were on a crack manifest heading for Mobile. With only a few hours to daylight, we slept soundly, despite our hunger. Our third day without food was coming up. Awakened by a loud banging, we discovered our car was being shunted back and forth to make up another train. "Is it a long walk into Mobile?" I asked a switchman. "A helluva long walk, boy. You're in Hattiesburg," he answered, looking at me curiously. At least one "Knight of the Road" did not have his timetables straight. Leaving Vic to shave at a faucet outside the yardmen's shop, I went freshly washed, inside to get information. My "good morning, gentlemen" won smiles from two railroadmen reading the bulletin board. "May I ask if there is any place nearby to buy food, and is it possible to get a train out of here going east?" "The nearest food is at the first cafe six miles toward town," one replied. "If you're anxious to be on your way there'll be a special coming through here in about twenty minutes," the other man said. "It'll be one of those cattle trains heading for Georgia or Florida." "They come from the -Texas panhandle and Oklahoma and all stop here to take on water and coal," added the other man. "Hang around to watch them water and feed the cattle. You'll have no chance to pull out before then anyway," the first railroader suggested. "Hurt your foot, son?" he asked, noticing my limp. "No, except the nail in my shoe hurts like hell every time I step on it." Reaching for a claw hammer, he asked me to take my shoe off, and quickly removed the nail. I thanked him and offered to pay for the shoe repair job. "No thanks, my pleasure. I like the way you came in here and called us gentlemen. Not many young people have good manners these days." Never one to pass up a good conversation, I decided to stay there and talk, having great curiosity about railroading. "How long you been on the railroad?" I asked. "About twenty-eight years too long." "Would you tell a young fella to take it up?" "Sure, if he can't do any better." "It's time to go," he said, checking his watch. With a warm handclasp and friendly slap on my back he said, "Go home, John, and get a job or join the army. Railroading is okay if you're paid for it, but too dangerous and uncomfortable if you're not." When I found Vic, the expected train was in and well along in the preparation to send it farther east. Once on the train, Vic confessed that he had scrounged a sandwich. "You must have been eating in that work shed. You were in there so long," he said. I confessed to being stupid and spending all that time talking to the switchmen. "I asked around about walking in to town for food and time to catch this cattle train," Vic explained. "Two yard men thought it would be a gamble, and when I complained about being hungry, one gave me a thick pork sandwich out of his lunch bucket." "Don't tell me anything more about it," I groaned. "Getting out of New Orleans has to be our worst trip," he said to change the conversation. "There was a worse one a few years back, when a friend and I were going through Montana looking for work out West," I said. "We had no idea how cold it gets in the mountains. We spent one night in a reefer (a refrigerated car, loaded with blocks of ice in the end compartments to keep food from spoiling)." "Going west, reefers are empty and a great place to keep warm, if not crossing the mountains in September. It was too cold to sleep, and my fingers and ears were becoming numb. The train was speeding back to California with empty cars. There was no way for us to get off without breaking our necks. We decided to climb up and down, jump up and down, and wrestle standing
